


The Body Is Its Own Place

by awomannotagirl



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/F, Jedi mindfuck, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnancy Kink, Strap-Ons, philosophizing about the power of sex as an excuse for smut, probably too much dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awomannotagirl/pseuds/awomannotagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing in her life has ever been as right as Rey is, and nothing—not the Force, not some archaic code, not any person’s made-up notion of the way the universe should work—can make what happens between them less than the life-giving, lightning-generating gift that it is.</p><p>Phasma feels a flash of deep hatred for the Jedi and their ridiculous Code and their pompous self-importance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They’re in one of their favorite places, in one of their favorite positions, doing one of their favorite things. Phasma lies face down, spread out, hands gripping the edges of the mattress; Rey lies behind and on top of her, head on the small of her back, fingers of one hand working deep inside and the other hand under her, splayed over her abdomen and pressing gently up, meeting her own thrusts. The only sounds are Phasma’s hoarse breathing and the soft squelch of Rey’s fingers moving, along with an occasional pleased hum from the back of Rey’s throat. Phasma has come to trust that she can take as long as she has to, build toward release as slowly as she needs to. Rey will do this forever if she can, fucking Phasma through orgasm after orgasm. 

Phasma visualizes Rey’s fingertips so close to the palm of her other hand, almost touching, only a few inches of Phasma’s body between them—but the most sensitive inches of Phasma’s body, and right now those inches are tender, aching, swelling. And _oh_ suddenly she’s right there, the explosion so close, and Rey feels it too. “Phas,” Rey breathes, her lips tickling the skin of Phasma’s lower back. Phasma turns her head and pushes her forehead into the mattress, and as she grips Rey’s fingers inside her and the pressure breaks, floods her with pleasure, she cries out long and rough.

“Enough, that’s enough,” she says, gasping and panting, and she lets go of the edge of the mattress to put her hand over Rey’s, holding her inside but holding her still. She’s come three times, she thinks, and she knows Rey drinks her release like water in a desert but she is exhausted. The delicious sensation of being fully fucked is beginning to shift into the harsher sensation of being sore. She pushes gently at Rey’s fingers where they enter her body and Rey reluctantly, slowly, pulls them out. 

It’s hard to be empty again even though she knows she can’t take any more, and she makes a little sound like a sob. Rey puts her palm over the swollen, oversensitive place she’s just pounded for an hour and holds her gently, and the rush of feeling that fills Phasma’s chest and throat is—She thinks it might be love. She’s not sure. She doesn’t have a lot of practice.

 _Any_ practice, she amends. At any of it. She supposes this is what people call a relationship. There’s so much they’ve never discussed; it all just happened, and they’ve become this thing they are now without apparently making any decisions about it. Rey swooped in and picked her up off an obscure planet in the middle of chaos, they had sex on a spaceship, they returned to the Resistance base on D’Qan and had more sex—a lot more sex. They sleep in the same bed most of the time and eat their meals together and are learning a baffling universe together. And it has been, Phasma has to acknowledge, intensely liberating in almost every way. 

Still, they have skipped some preliminaries that Phasma only knows are important from reading novels and watching vids. They went directly from conversations that weren’t much more than _harder_ and _faster_ and _right there_ and _don’t stop_ to _Where’s my blue linen shirt?_ and _You make the bed, I made the bed yesterday._ They didn’t go on dates. They didn’t spend long late nights talking about their childhoods (not a happy subject for either of them, anyway). They went from strangers to partners with nothing in between.

Phasma knows she’s not the only object of Rey’s inexhaustible sexual curiosity. She knows Rey has adventures far from their bed—hell, she’s been along for some of them. It has never bothered her; she has lived her whole life in an environment where a long-term, monogamous commitment was impossible, and it is still an alien concept to her. She’s come to realize that most of the other humans around her value and expect that commitment, so it had been something of a surprise that Rey didn’t comprehend it either. Indisputedly, though, there is a powerful bond between the two of them that is not interchangeable with what they might feel or do with others. Rey always comes back, and so does Phasma, and the things that are most deeply important are things they don’t—can’t—share with other people.

It is working. So far. 

Phasma rolls onto her side, wiggling out from under Rey, and brings her scrambling up to lie next to her. Rey looks her full in the face with her happiest, openest expression, and Phasma feels that odd melting in her chest that she gets only from Rey. She reaches out and strokes Rey’s long, silky, messy hair. She may be the only person who ever sees it down like this, which is curiously enjoyable.

“Why me?” Phasma asks. She hadn’t even realized she was going to say it until the words were out. Rey’s eyes crinkle and she puts her head on one side, inquisitively. “You didn’t know anything about me,” Phasma clarifies. “We’d never even spoken. But you came lightyears across the galaxy to get me, and you’re still with me. Why? Why _me_?”

A tiny wrinkle appears between Rey’s eyebrows. She appears to be giving Phasma’s question serious thought. “I did know you,” she says slowly. “I don’t know how, but I did. I knew you were _right._ I still do.” She smiles and puts her hand on Phasma’s cheek. “You knew too, didn’t you? I mean, why _me_?”

It’s a question Phasma has never even considered. Why Rey? Because she is extraordinary and beautiful and endlessly interesting and ... Rey. And yes, because she knows that she is right. 

Phasma does not want to believe in soulmates and one-true-loves. The very concept seems grotesque, unnatural. She does not want to believe that she and Rey have been brought together by the goddamned Force. She wants to think that for once in her life she was able to make a choice. But that isn’t what it feels like. It feels like destiny. She hopes that’s enough.

• • • 

Then it isn’t working any more. 

For days—weeks, even—Phasma thinks, and then hopes, she’s imagining it. She knows that she isn’t.

In the few months they’ve been together, Rey has occasionally been angry with her, sometimes frustrated, often teasing. She has never— _never_ —been distant. She has never let anything go unsaid. But in these last days and weeks, she has long moments, even whole days in which she is somewhere else entirely: somewhere troubled and very, very far away.

The way Rey and Phasma have always been able to meet, the effortless, wordless place, is their physical connection. From the first their mutual hunger has been the way they could communicate deeply and fully without ever saying a thing. It still is, when they get there, but it is not now immediate; they are tentative when they first see each other rather than insatiable, and Phasma feels as if she is coaxing Rey back into her body from some other world. 

Rey’s working hard within the Resistance, of course, and she’s also spending days at a time off nowhere with Skywalker. Phasma is working as well, drilling Resistance infantry, giving tactical briefings to senior staff, spending hours in consultation with strategists and intelligence experts all the way up to General Organa. Phasma knows so much, it sometimes seems impossible that she will ever be able to get it all out of her head and into the Resistance infrastructure. At the end of a day she is often hoarse and dry-mouthed from giving up the First Order’s secrets. 

Exhaustion, though, is not the reason for their odd standoffishness, though their exhaustion is real. The cause is as clear as the effect, as much as Phasma doesn’t want to see it. Periodically Rey leaves D’Qan and heads off to wherever it is she goes to find her Master; she’s gone for a couple of days to a week, and when she returns she’s disconnected and disjointed. She is stiff with Phasma, and it takes her longer each time to loosen into her ordinary, affectionate self. That the training isn’t going well doesn’t need to be said. That Rey is unhappy and that their effortless trust is breaking down—that does need to be said.

A night comes when Rey violates one of her own rules, one of their sacred rules. She slides into bed wearing a shirt and a pair of soft pants. It doesn’t seem like much, but Rey has insisted from the very beginning that there were to be no clothes in bed. When they’re lying together, even if it’s not sexual, Rey wants Phasma’s skin next to hers. 

Phasma, naked, is suddenly angry and a little bit afraid. Rey has never not wanted to touch her before, not here, not in the place they have devoted to being together, sleeping and fucking and holding each other. Phasma slaps the touchpad, turning the light on, and says, “What’s wrong, Rey?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Rey says. 

Phasma groans and sits up. “Rey.” She looks down, into Rey’s eyes, and for the first time in her memory, Rey’s gaze shifts away. She touches Rey’s face and says, more softly, more urgently, “Rey.”

Rey shuts her eyes. “Nothing’s wrong with _you._ ”

Phasma can’t help but be relieved. She hadn’t really thought it was something she’d done, but she also hadn’t been able to stop herself from reliving every time she’d snapped at Rey or been sullen or thoughtless and wondering, _Was this it? Did_ this _drive her away?_ “What, then?” she asks, stroking her thumb along Rey’s cheekbone.

Rey keeps her eyes closed. “It’s that—” She hesitates. “I’ve been with Luke—” She must feel Phasma freeze, because her eyes open and she says quickly, “No, not _that,_ I mean we’ve been talking about history and, well, his father, and what happened—” Phasma knows that story, naturally, though she was taught it from a profoundly different angle than Rey was. 

Rey takes a deep breath. “Luke thinks—he hasn’t come out and said it exactly, but it’s pretty clear that he thinks it was all because of sex.”

Phasma draws a deep, dawning breath. “Oh.”

Now Rey sits up too. “It’s not clear, of course, because there haven’t been Jedi for so long and it’s not something that there’s scripture about or anything. And the archives are lost, and the Code doesn’t say anything specific. And it wasn’t always, I mean some of the ancient Jedi were married and had children ...”

“But Skywalker thinks that Jedi shouldn’t have sex.”

Rey doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “He’s never actually said that. And no, it’s not that the Jedi aren’t supposed to have sex, exactly.” She sighs, looking far out into the room at things that aren’t there. “They’re not supposed to get attached.”

Phasma feels a cold stab of fear. It is about to happen, the inevitable loss. She is going to lose Rey precisely because Rey has become crucial to her. She also feels a flash of deep hatred for the Jedi and their ridiculous Code and their pompous self-importance. Carefully, neutrally, she asks, “What do you think?” 

Rey shakes her head. “I don’t know. I wish—I just don’t know.” She looks miserable. She is miserable. 

Phasma closes her eyes for a moment, searching for the best thing to do, some right thing to say. She can’t say what she really wants to say, which is, “Fuck the Jedi!” That, she knows, will only make Rey defensive and possibly drive her further into that cold, remote place. 

“He keeps saying that it wasn’t till he went off by himself that he stopped making terrible mistakes with the Force,” Rey says. “He blames himself for everything. From Darth Vader to Kylo Ren. He thinks he has to be alone to keep the Force uncorrupted by darkness.”

Phasma doesn’t fully understand Rey’s relationship to the Force, or even really want to understand it. But she does know that the power Rey finds in physical passion is deeply linked to her mysterious, metaphysical Force. 

“It’s not like that for you,” she says, taking Rey’s face between her hands. “That’s all right. It doesn’t have to be the same thing, does it?”

“But then how do I trust what he teaches me?” Rey bursts out. “If it’s so different for me than it is for him.”

Phasma lowers her head, touching her forehead to the warm crook of Rey’s neck and putting her arms loosely around her. She doesn’t know how to answer that, but she senses that Rey has to.

“I feel it when you’re inside me,” Rey says into Phasma’s hair. “I feel it when I’m coming in your hands, Phas. I feel it when I have my mouth on you.” Phasma’s breath quickens—she can’t help it, just hearing Rey talk about their bodies together is enough to make her want, to make her swell and need. And knowing that she is giving Rey not just a physical sensation but also a deep, necessary connection to her own power makes Phasma dizzy with elation.

She doesn’t want to ask the next thing, but she has to. If she is not strictly fair with how she helps Rey think this through, Rey will still come to know what’s there to know, and she will also know that Phasma tried to keep it from her. “And with other people?” She is surprised by how steady her voice is. The answer to this is either some kind of hope for her or a confirmation that Rey will leave her behind. “You feel it with other people too, don’t you?”

The few seconds it takes Rey to reply hang there as if time has stopped. Phasma can hear her own heart thudding and she feels Rey’s deep breath. “Yes,” Rey finally says, and the world crashes— _she does not need me, she will not choose me_ —“but not as much.” The world rebuilds itself. “It’s not as deep. With you”—Rey’s arms tighten around her—“it’s like I feel the whole universe.”

Phasma wants to weep with joy and relief. She would never have lied to Rey or let Rey lie to herself, but she is soaringly, selfishly glad that this is the truth. “You have to trust that,” she says, her mouth against Rey’s collarbone. She turns her head, bringing her lips to Rey’s ear. “Trust where you find the power in yourself. That’s another thing he tells you, isn’t it?”

Rey nods against her. “This can’t be wrong,” she whispers.

“It’s not wrong,” Phasma says, her voice suddenly strong. She is sure of this. She has to be sure of this. Nothing in her life has ever been as right as Rey is, and she cannot for a moment let either of them believe that anything—not the Force, not some archaic Jedi code, not any person’s made-up notion of the way the universe should work—can make what happens between them less than the life-giving, lightning-generating gift that it is.

Rey brings her own hands to Phasma’s face and touches their foreheads together; her eyes are closed but Phasma feels Rey searching her, as if she is examining every cell in her body. “Show me,” she breathes. “Show me, Phas.”

Phasma moves her lips over Rey’s, not kissing exactly, but searching, brushing, memorizing the feel of Rey’s mouth with the touch of her own. She goes on, ghosting over Rey’s cheeks, her eyes, forehead, hair, the delicate arc of her ear. Then she adds her fingertips, touching them to the back of Rey’s neck at her hairline and drawing them down to the loose collar of her shirt. She can hear Rey breathing a little harder, a little faster. Phasma touches Rey’s earlobe with just the tip of her tongue, and when she hears Rey’s breath catch, she takes the soft flesh in her lips and pulls gently; then in her teeth, less gently. Rey makes a tiny whimper in the back of her throat. 

Phasma moves her hand from the back of Rey’s neck and drags it around, over her collarbone, down the swell of her breast. Circling with her thumb, she feels Rey’s nipple hardening through the thin fabric of her shirt. She makes an approving “Mmm” just as Rey gasps. She never gets tired of the way Rey’s body responds. “That’s right,” she whispers, and she feels Rey nod, slowly, against her. “This is right. You know it’s right.”

“I do,” Rey whispers back. She turns her head just enough so that her cheek is smoothing over Phasma’s, and they both make low, pleased noises before their mouths meet again, more purposefully this time. Phasma shifts so that she can use the arm she’s been leaning on to pull Rey closer, her hand on the small of Rey’s back, her other hand still at work over Rey’s breast, her mouth teasing Rey’s open. 

Rey’s shirt has buttons, so Phasma brings her hands forward and undoes them, slowly and methodically, making sure to graze newly exposed skin with her fingertips and knuckles as she goes. When she has the shirt unbuttoned to a point almost to Rey’s navel, she kisses down her throat to the plain between Rey’s breasts; then she takes the hem of the shirt and pulls it off over Rey’s head. She lowers herself down to the bed onto her back, watching Rey’s face as she does. “Come,” she says, taking Rey by the upper arms and guiding her down on top of her. 

Rey’s weight is soothing. Her skin against Phasma’s is warm and familiar and delicious, and Phasma takes a moment to revel in how their bodies fit so beautifully together. She isn’t sure yet how this is going to go, or how it should; she needs to feel out Rey’s needs. In the last few minutes she herself has traveled from exasperated to badly frightened to limp with relief, and she doesn’t really know what kind of experience she wants, either. So she runs her hands slowly, thoughtfully, over Rey’s body, tracing the cliffs and canyons of shoulder blades and ribs, ridgewalking the twin swells of muscle framing her spine. She nuzzles into Rey’s neck, breathing in the by-now-familiar scent of her. Strange, she thinks, the smell and the taste right here, where the column of Rey’s neck meets her shoulder, is so particularly and unmistakably Rey, and yet can’t be recalled when they’re apart, only experienced when they’re together.

Where her cheekbone meets her jaw, just where Rey’s face touches her, she suddenly feels wet. Then wetter. Rey is making no sound, she does not sob or shake, but those are her tears. Phasma can even hear them dripping onto the sheet stretched beneath them. Now Phasma knows how this needs to be—how it needs to begin, at least. 

She tightens her arms around Rey. She listens for her breathing, which is just a little too shallow and rapid, and reaches out for the places where their skin presses together. With a little attention she can feel the blood pulse through Rey’s body, feel the light quickness of her living self. And she can feel the circling course of her own blood, and the slower, tighter throb of her own life force, and she can bring them together, hers and Rey’s; and while they never quite merge, they dance and lick, clear and silver and ringing.

Phasma feels Rey slip her hands under her shoulders, holding on. She is breathing more deeply, and the dazzling buzz Phasma senses inside her is becoming less frantic. They lie like that for some uncountable time, melting together but each still whole. Then, imperceptibly at first, the pulse of Rey’s body against hers begins to gather and center beneath the muscles of her abdomen, between belly button and pubic bone, a slow beat of need deep inside her. She feels Rey smile against her cheek and hears a near-laugh in her exhale; she feels it too. 

Phasma loves this. As much as she appreciates the casual, purposefully sexual touch that Rey lavishes on her as part of their everyday life, she loves this wordless, nearly motionless intensity even more. Perhaps she loves it more because it is harder to access. They are both focused now, each feeling her own arousal building deep inside herself, and also the other’s. To Phasma, the hungry spark in Rey’s center is a dark glowing red, a banked ember that Phasma wants to blow gently on and breathe into bright orange heat, and as she wants it, so it happens. 

Rey groans and lifts her head, throat working and eyes closed; her hips grind into Phasma as she too feels the heat blossom at that deepest point of her body. Phasma deliberately bends a leg and presses her powerful thigh against Rey, giving her a column of muscle to grind against, and Rey’s urgent “Yes” and the way her legs lock around Phasma’s tells her that she’s read her need right. Rey raises herself on her arms, pushing the join of her legs against Phasma’s thigh with all the strength in her body, rolling her hips. “Oh god, more,” she breathes, and Phasma puts her hands on Rey’s hips and pushes her even harder, adding her considerable brawn to the pressure grinding Rey’s cunt into her iron quads. 

Rey is making a harsh squeak every time she thrusts her hips down, and drawing a ragged sobbing breath every time she pulls back. “I need,” she gasps, “I need, I need...” She can’t finish and maybe doesn’t even know, but Phasma does; Phasma has not stopped watching the glowing spark deep in Rey’s body, and she can feel how much it wants to be touched. Abruptly she pulls Rey close and holds her there, and rolls them over so that Rey is underneath her. She’s up on her knees in a moment, seizing the waistband of Rey’s pants and tearing them off. Rey lets her legs fall open, and Phasma grabs her under the knees, shoves her thighs up and apart, and puts her hand flat over the wet, swollen flesh she finds there. She squeezes, forceful, and Rey wails in desperate want. 

There are times when Phasma lingers and teases; this isn’t one of them. She drives two fingers deep into Rey, who cries out her aching joy, and starts to fuck her furiously. Rey bucks and thrusts back, wild and frantic, and Phasma slides her other arm under Rey’s hips and traps her between that arm and her head, pressing her cheek to Rey’s belly. She settles into a firm, quick rhythm, Rey’s throaty cry with every stroke telling her that it’s right, it’s perfect. 

Rey is wet and open and loose, taking her deeper than she’s ever been. She adds a third finger and Rey makes a long, urgent sound from the depth of her chest to tell her _yes,_ and she keeps slamming into Rey over and over. Hazily she wonders if she’s going to hurt Rey with the force she’s fucking her with, but it’s clear that Rey doesn’t care—wants it, in fact, _needs_ it—and the spark is growing to a blaze. 

A little while, and Rey gasps, “More.” Phasma hesitates—she’s never given Rey this much before—but finally, when Rey whimpers, “Please,” she pushes in with all four fingers. Rey’s cunt is stretched tight around her; it must be burning even as Phasma is able to hit the root of Rey’s body with her fingertips. She can’t pull very far out now so her thrusts are shorter, though still strong, and she gives Rey time between each one to feel it completely and recover before she thrusts again. 

Rey has wrapped her legs around Phasma’s back and she digs in with her heels, pulling her even closer, even deeper, with each stroke. Phasma wants to reach in and grab that fire building in Rey, squeeze it in her fist and command it and make it burst. For the first time she wonders if she might be able to push her entire hand into Rey’s cunt. She’s taken Rey’s fist a couple of times and it is an incredible feeling, but Rey’s hand is much smaller than hers, and they had talked about it before they did it—so not now, not today, but Phasma puts it on her mental list.

Rey’s climax is close. They can both feel it, and they feel each other feeling it. Rey is starting to contract inside and clutch Phasma tight between her thighs. Phasma fucks Rey a little faster, moving less but finishing powerfully and pushing a little high grunt out of Rey’s throat every time, and then she shifts her head down and puts her mouth on Rey’s clit. 

Rey likes to be pressed hard with the flat of Phasma’s tongue, so she does that, riding as Rey’s hips roll, but it’s when she takes Rey’s clit into her mouth and sucks that Rey freezes, clenches, and explodes. Phasma can feel it flooding through her own body, filling her chest, the quicksilver chill tickling her neck and scalp—different from her own orgasm, almost as satisfying. Rey gives a long hoarse howl, as loud and as animal-sounding as Phasma has ever heard her, and pulses inside again and again as Phasma massages with her fingertips and mouths her clit with lips and tongue. 

Finally Rey flops back, letting her legs go limp, and Phasma lifts her head, stills her hand, and looks up. Rey is flushed and panting and thoroughly wrecked. 

“Oh my god,” she says. “Gods. Spirits. Whatever. Everything.”

Phasma grins, absurdly proud, and very gently wiggles the fingers still buried wetly in Rey. “Are you done?” she asks softly. Usually Rey isn’t. One of her first and most delightful discoveries about Rey’s body was that, after a moment to recover, she almost always wanted to be fucked a little more, sometimes even into another orgasm. 

Rey seems doubtful about it now, though. “I don’t ...” She trails off. “Pull out, I think.” Phasma does, with some difficulty, Rey’s internal muscles not wanting to release her. She clambers up next to her and takes her in her arms, kissing her gently all over her face.

They lie together, their lips touching, while both their hearts slow down. Gradually Phasma realizes that Rey is rocking her hips, almost imperceptibly, and she reaches down and cups her hand between Rey’s legs. “You’re _not_ done,” she says, smiling.

“I feel so greedy,” Rey murmurs. “You just practically fucked me in half.” Phasma smiles wider and parts Rey’s lower lips with a finger, touching the messy wet heat there. Rey groans and gives a tiny shake of her head. “Not your fingers,” she says. “Sorry, but—”

Phasma stops her with a kiss. “Not sorry,” she says. “Never sorry. Not about this.” She crawls over to the wooden box that serves as a nightstand, and has the advantage of also being a wooden box, able to contain things. She opens the top and looks in. “Glass?” she asks.

“Glass,” Rey agrees. “Perfect.”

Phasma takes out a beautiful heavy glass object, with a smooth ball at one end atop a column of ridges and curves, and a handle with finger grips at the other. She’d had it made at a bazaar on the edge of Republic space by a craftsman—craftsbeing? craftsthing? she’d met there. Whatever it was had several mouths, a large and complex system of lungs, six delicate long-fingered arms, and leathery skin, and was probably the best glassblower in the known universe. The handle had been its idea, and Phasma often thought she should go back there to thank it.

She looks down at Rey, trembling and needy and so beautiful. She reaches out and strokes the side of Rey’s face, and then she says, “Hands and knees.” Rey doesn’t hesitate. She rolls up and gets on all fours, knees spread wide, looking back at Phasma with half-closed eyes. 

Phasma does hesitate, taking a moment to look with wonder at the soft reddened flesh that Rey offers her. With one hand, she parts the outer lips and stares at the whorl of clitoris and labia framing the entrance, which is swollen open like a rough-kissed mouth. Rey makes a noise between a groan and a whimper and pushes backward, wanting. “All right, baby,” Phasma breathes, and she touches the smooth end of the glass to Rey’s opening. She hears the sharp indrawn breath and presses forward, pushes in. 

The cool glass will be soothing to Rey’s overheated, already overfucked cunt, but it will also fill her and stretch her and give her the last stimulation she needs. Phasma moves her hand from where she had been holding Rey open and puts the heel of it right on Rey’s clit; then she pushes forward on the handle of the dildo. Rey’s satisfied exhalation as the thick glass sinks into her is Phasma’s reward. 

She loves this, as much as she loves using her fingers, because this she can _see_ without the incredible distraction of actually feeling the wet, slick muscles and ridges inside Rey’s body. She moves the dildo slowly in and out, watching with fascination as it is swallowed over and over, Rey split open for it, her red-pink lips stretched around it. After a few moments Rey collapses forward onto her arms, cunt proud in the air, and Phasma angles the handle so that she is dragging the smooth pressure of the tool over Rey’s front wall. “Breathe,” she says to Rey, who obeys with a keening gasp.

Rey is moving her hips just slightly, rubbing herself against Phasma’s hand, a slow, firm rhythm matching the slow, firm strokes Phasma is using with the glass dildo. Her breath becomes audible, a guttural syllable each time the head hits deep. Phasma narrows the world to Rey in her hands, slick flesh moving against one and the glass warming in the other, a connection, a conduit, between her body and Rey’s. That tingle dancing in her skin is Rey’s. As she lets it fill her awareness, she is struck with the strange doubled sensation of feeling Rey’s clit on her hand and _being_ Rey thrusting her body against her hand, of moving the glass with her other hand and feeling it bottoming out inside herself. 

It’s good, so good, but with her new awareness she can change the angles just so and then it’s perfect, the ridges of the glass perfect against the ridges inside, and she’s been aroused forever but she feels, impossibly, the swell of impending orgasm right where the phantom dildo is stroking into her; right there _right there_ , at the very center of her body, it winds up and winds up and that knot inside is so tight it almost hurts and then it snaps, releases, and the flood of pleasure breaks over them. They come together, fully and completely together.

When it ebbs, they collapse together, Phasma drawing the glass out of Rey (feeling the withdrawal from her own cunt) and setting it aside, wrapping herself in Rey. Slowly, her body returns to itself, and she is again feeling Rey sweaty and sticky against her but separate. She catches Rey’s eyes and sees the wonder there, and then they’re both laughing, in amazement and joy.

It trails off, but they hold each other’s eyes for a long, long moment. Finally Rey reaches up with a finger and traces Phasma’s lips. “And you think,” she says, “that you can’t feel the Force.”


	2. Chapter 2

For most of Rey’s life, sex had been something she escaped. Narrowly, sometimes. It was a threat. It was shifty-eyed, rank-smelling men who eyed her like she was a well-cooked piece of meat—like they owned her already, and were only waiting to prove it. It was humiliation that lurked between tents when the outpost was dark. It was the reason she learned to fight.

She knew it could be something different. There had been a young woman, a girl, really, no older than Rey herself, who’d come in with a caravan and stayed a few weeks. Her name was Eiaifah. She had had an infrequent but heart-stopping smile that Rey had turned herself inside out to bring forth, and she had shown Rey things that her body could do that she had never even imagined. With Eiaifah’s mouth between her legs, with her fingers working in Eiaifah’s wet heat, she felt her own power in a clean, flowing fire.

And now, Phasma. Phasma spoke to her in the not-language of that fire and singing nerves before they’d ever exchanged a word, before they had ever even met, and she still does. Sex with Phasma is a level of fierceness beyond what she’d imagined. It is also tender in a way she had been unable to fathom; also joyful, reverent, _ir_ reverent, deeply serious, light as breath. There is nothing she wants that Phasma isn’t willing to give her, even—following some delicate negotiation, to be sure—other lovers. Whatever the opposite of shame is, that is what she feels every time she gives Phasma her body. It takes a long time for Rey to find a name for the unfamiliar feeling that underlies everything else, because she has never experienced it before: _safety._ She feels safe. Even when she is naked, needy, exposed, Phasma makes her feel safe. And from there, all things seem possible.

Having touched something enormous and sublime, Rey is now often in search of some kind of revelation when she has sex, and she often finds it. It’s full of mystery, this animal exercise of slipping and shuddering against another person in pursuit of a brief paroxysm of the nervous system. How is it, for instance, that opening the most secret part of her body to another person can feel so _powerful_? It makes her as exposed as it’s possible for her to be. Yet when she spreads her legs in invitation, the wild hunger that her cunt calls forth from her lover makes her feel invincible. The expanse of things that lover’s actual touch can mean and be—pleasure, of course, but also comfort, forgiveness, communication, domination, even sorrow or anger—amazes her. 

And being entered, which all her life she had imagined and even been told was an act of submission, feels instead as strong as striking with a staff. Yes, it is vulnerable too, but vulnerable in the way that telling a secret is vulnerable, not the way that being injured is vulnerable.

Of course, sex is not always or even mostly some kind of transcendent experience. Sometimes it’s hilarious or awkward or just fun. Sometimes she is in charge, dictating the pace and the mechanics and her own pleasure; sometimes Phasma takes over. Takes her. And that, really, is the wonder of it: that the same action—stimulating a particular collection of nerves in a psychically charged part of the body—is a different shade of new in her heart every time. 

She finds all this even as she discovers that sex is a wellspring of the very Force that she is trying to learn to command. And now—now she understands that the fierce rage of need is a power, not a weakness. It is the very mystery that animates her cells, the force (the Force) that breathes and moves between the molecules of every solid-seeming living thing.

She doesn’t understand why anyone would deny this. She doesn’t understand why she’s being asked to. 

• • •

Sometimes she teases.

Rey lies back on the bed, pushed up on one elbow with her legs lying open, rubbing quick circles over her clit and causing the red, swollen mouth of her cunt to make obscene wet smacking sounds, while she stares into Phasma’s eyes and won’t let her do anything but watch. Phasma watches Rey get closer and closer, watches her hips start to move under her own hand, watches her top teeth pinch her bottom lip as her face twists, and finally watches her throw her head back and cry out, pressing her fingers over her clit as she surges. 

Phasma is five feet away, painfully aroused and under orders not to move. Rey revels in the cruelty of it. And then, when her heart slows enough for her to be able to speak, she says, “All right. Come here,” and Phasma is on her. Her naked skin is on Rey’s, her teeth ungentle on Rey’s neck, then her breast, and then her left thigh is in Phasma’s hand, shoved up and open, and _gods and stars and planets_ Phasma plunges into her. She’s rough and urgent, filling her in a thrust, and then she stays inside Rey, pushing deep and rocking, just slightly. 

Rey moves her hips and makes a demanding sound—she’s not actually capable of forming a word—and Phasma lets her hand ride with Rey’s motion, giving her no relief. “Oh now you want something,” she growls. “Now you want me to fuck you. After that stunt.” She’s smiling, though, and Rey grins back. “You’ll get it when I give it to you,” she goes on, mock-stern. 

“When?”

“When I want to.”

“Now?” Rey tries to fuck herself on Phasma’s fingers, but Phasma lets the pressure melt away again.

“No.” 

“Now?”

“No.”

 _“Now?”_ She’s pleading, and Phasma likes pleading, but later Rey decides it’s probably the thing she does with her fingers on Phasma’s nipples that makes her finally cut loose. 

“Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Rey gasps, descriptively enough, as Phasma works hard and fast, the sound of fingers pistoning in wet cunt filling the room. Rey cries out, grunts, babbles, trying to put the pounding pleasure between her legs into a sound on the air. She holds on, digging her nails into Phasma’s back and her heels into Phasma’s ass, erupting with “So good” and “Don’t stop” and strings of syllables that don’t make words but all mean the same thing. 

At long last she has to stop Phasma’s hand. She can’t actually handle being fucked like this forever, whatever she might want to say about it while she’s on her back taking it; she might be young and supple but she does eventually get sore. She’ll feel it tomorrow, and maybe even the day after. She doesn’t mind, she even kind of likes the feeling, but she doesn’t want to be unable to have sex again for days. 

“Enough,” she says, hardly above a whisper. 

Phasma pushes up, rising above her on one hand and her knees. She smiles. “For now?” she asks, slowly pulling out the fingers that Rey’s cunt wants to clutch tight. 

“For now,” Rey groans. Sore as she is, she misses the fullness and the friction. She is beginning to think, already, about how she will manage the next time.

• • •

Sometimes she’s teased.

Rey gets the comm message: _Landing in three. Be ready. You’re mine and I’m coming for you._ That is the end of her ability to do any useful work. She has spent every intervening second digesting that message, imagining what that message might mean for the moment that ...

The door opens, then slams, and she hears the lock. She deliberately doesn’t look around, just stands in front of the bed with her back to the door. Phasma is behind her in two steps, seizing her around the shoulders with one strong arm, the other shoved unceremoniously into her pants and between her thighs. She grabs Rey—grabs her, no gentle stroking or cupping—and growls, “Mine.” 

So it’s going to be _that_ kind of night. Rey likes that kind of night. She wouldn’t, if it weren’t for her certain knowledge that Phasma’s “Mine” means “I’m going to give you everything I’ve got” and not “I own you.” She’s had Phasma murmur “Mine” in her ear as Rey lay against her, naked back against Phasma’s naked breast, with Phasma gripping her knees and holding her open for the eager mouth and hands of another person. It’s not quite so possessive, like that.

Right now it’s just the two of them, and Phasma is kneading her with the flats of her fingers, and if that wasn’t enough to make her swell and throb, Phasma begins to talk, low and gravelly, into her ear.

“I’ve been thinking about you all the way home.” Phasma puts her mouth into the crook of Rey’s neck. “About _fucking_ you,” she says, laying deliberate stress on the verb. “About being inside you, pumping inside you. About you just coming and coming and coming.” 

Then she pulls her hand abruptly out of Rey’s pants, only to grab the waistband and yank them down. “Out of these,” she orders, and Rey steps out, and they vanish, kicked behind them somewhere. Phasma’s hands return to her body, one between her legs from the front, one slipping in from the back. Fingers press against her already-slippery clit, press up against her entrance. “So wet for me.”

Rey closes her eyes and her lips part, breath coming faster. She’s weak for this, and Phasma works up some incredible filthy talk just for these moments. “Love it when you’re ready for me. When you’re worked up and wanting, and I just touch you. Stroke your skin. Stroke over your breasts, your belly.” She suits her action to her words, leaving Rey’s pussy to drag her knuckles up and down her torso and noting the quickening of her breath. “I love making you wait. When I make you wait on your knees with your legs open and your cunt in the air.” Rey gives a strangled whimpering gasp. 

“Then I can kneel behind you,” she goes on. “I can slide my thumbs along your lips. You’re already wet, aren’t you. I can open you up even further, pull you open with my fingers. Maybe I’ll even touch you. Just a little. Just one finger, at your entrance.” Again she does as she says, pushing Rey’s thighs apart with her own knees, opening her sex and delicately, tenderly pressing the pad of her middle finger to the very top of the opening of Rey’s body. “Like that,” she says, low, and holds the touch there while Rey breathes hard and fast and lets her eyes flutter closed. When Phasma feels Rey’s hips start to roll, she pulls away. “No, no,” she says right into Rey’s ear, teasing in her voice. “We’re not fucking. Just talking. Talking about what I _could_ do. What I _would_ do. If.”

“If,” Rey says, barely able to get it out. “If I kneel for you?” She hadn’t wanted it to be a question but she couldn’t keep it from coming out that way. She feels the smile against her ear.

“Maybe,” Phasma says. “Why don’t you try it.” 

Then Rey’s on the bed, on her knees, head down on her arms, unable to keep her hips from moving in hunger. And Phasma ... looks. Rey hears her making a growly hum in her throat and she knows it’s a sign of Phasma’s approval, but that might well mean that this looking satisfies her—that there is nothing more coming for Rey. She can’t help it: she sobs. 

“Oh baby,” Phasma says, amusement mixing with sympathy and desire. Rey feels her climb behind her, her knees between Rey’s, edging Rey’s legs further apart. The air is cool on Rey’s cunt and Phasma’s hands are close, so close: close but not touching. Rey can feel the heat from Phasma’s skin. She bucks back, and she gets a chuckle. 

Long moments pass. Phasma is studying her intensely, clearly loving the trembling and swelling she’s elicited, and Rey begins to think that this is it, this is all she’s going to do. And then she feels Phasma doing just exactly what she had promised. She feels, first, Phasma's fingertips just touching her flanks, and then her thumbs, slowly and firmly stroking down and opening her. Rey imagines her own tender, wet flesh, glistening pink where Phasma is spreading the cleft of her cunt, and she can't help but push back against Phasma's thumbs, just a bit. 

Then Phasma leaves her script. The next thing Rey feels is breath. That breath stops her own; she can barely do as much as keen softly when it’s followed by the touch of a tongue. Phasma is stroking her with thrusts of her tongue, then devouring her, taking as much of her swollen pussy into her mouth as she can. She’s sucking, scraping, biting, rubbing her face into Rey. There is no subtlety and no finesse and it takes Rey all of a minute, at most, to come, shuddering and groaning and pushing back into Phasma’s mouth.

• • •

Sometimes she wants weight. 

Tonight she wants to be held down by her lover’s much larger body, pinned to the bed while she spreads her legs and takes their cock. She wants to hear desperate breath in her ear, but no words, neither command nor question. She wants to be responsible for nothing but giving herself.

And because they spend endless hours describing to each other what they want, how it feels, and how they can give it to each other, a few words get her exactly that. Phasma is settled on Rey with her hips in the cradle of Rey’s thighs, muscled forearms under her back, hands gripping her shoulders, cheek against her temple; they are joined in fire-wet pleasure where Phasma rolls and thrusts and Rey opens, the cock moving slow and thick, pushed deep, pulled out, over and over.

Rey whimpers as the tip of the toy hits as deep as it can go, releasing a pulse of that exquisite feeling that lives nowhere else, a burst at the center of her body so huge and full it’s as shocking as pain. Tonight is Rey’s night to be utterly selfish, to take and take until she’s sated, and when she’s spent and sore, Phasma will hold her until she drifts into sleep. Tonight is not about chasing an orgasm. Tonight is about fucking: sweaty, breathy, heavy, filling pushing pounding gasping _fucking_. 

Phasma stills for a moment, pressing deep inside her, and mouths up her neck, licks down her jawline to her chin. Her lips brush Rey’s, but when Rey reaches for her and tries to take Phasma’s mouth with her own, Phasma slides her face to the side, cheek against Rey’s cheek, and begins fucking her again, in and in and _in_ , a little faster, a little more urgently.

“Oh, that’s good,” Rey murmurs. “So good.” It’s all she can say. Extended waves of _so good_. Sometimes Rey comes when they’re doing this, but not often, and probably not now. For one thing, Phasma made her climax rather spectacularly with her hands and mouth before this part of things started; for another, Rey doesn’t want to come. She doesn’t want this to end. She wants to be fucked and fucked until Phasma hammers her into something new, until the spark between them licks into her body, into her womb ...

She turns her head and takes the muscle of Phasma’s neck into her teeth, letting Phasma feel her smile. This fantasy is the one she was shyest about sharing, and she had been astonished to find that Phasma cherished a version of it too: _make me pregnant. you’re inside me, touching the part of me no one else can, and when you do, you bring life with you._ She whispers (they always whisper about this), “Make our baby in me, Phas.”

Phasma laughs quietly, the sound full of the easy love she has begun to relax into, and she whispers back, “I’ll fuck you pregnant, Rey. My baby growing in you. You’ll be so beautiful.”

Rey laughs too, lets her head drop back, and though it didn’t seem possible she opens even more. 

They’ve had a talk with Dr. Kalonia. When they want to, when they’re ready, ovofusion and implantation is a fairly straightforward procedure. It won’t have this magic, but they don’t need it to, do they? And anyway, they are in the middle of a war and Rey is too young and Phasma is barely human and there are a thousand reasons it’s not the right time. For now they have this, and it’s perfect.

Phasma is still talking, low and disconnected, about giving her babies, about holding Rey while her belly swells, how gorgeous her breasts will be. Rey closes her eyes, feels Phasma’s firm rhythm plowing into her, and imagines herself fertile and seeded, waiting only for the warm rain to explode into growth the way the desert did so briefly every year. The lovely nonsense of Phasma’s whisper falls into her, and she smiles, and she reaches.

Phasma is pushing into her now with much more than a phallic piece of silicone. That might be what’s physically inside her, but she can also feel _Phasma_ , the surging, sparkling current of her. Where Phasma’s body slides heavy and safe over hers in their mingled sweat, that current eddies and swirls; where they’re joined, it slides into her, tingling and popping. She stretches out the hand-which-is-not-a-hand that she is becoming dextrous with, dips into the stream she can only see with closed eyes and pulls a hand/not-handful deeper into herself. The motes of bright fire sizzle ecstatically through her and she cries out. 

Phasma freezes, buried in Rey’s cunt. And Rey gasps. One of those sparks she had seized so impulsively hasn’t simply flashed through and flushed out. It has burrowed into her body; it’s seeking a place to settle, almost exactly where Phasma is pressing deep inside her. It’s tiny, but it glows and dances. 

Rey grips Phasma’s hips and holds her still, and Phasma looks astonished. “What was that?” she asks.

“Phas,” Rey chokes out, half laughing, half stunned. “I didn’t really mean to, but ... I think we did it.”

• • •

The long climb up those stairs (more than six hundred of them, and she now knows each one intimately) affords Rey plenty of time to think. Most of her thinking on this climb is apprehension. 

She’s not worried about herself—what she’s done or might do—but she is very worried about how her mentor and friend will react to the things she has to tell him. 

She can find the Force the way that Luke tells her to. She can meditate and send her consciousness flowing out, she can see and even shape the majestic life-energy that vibrates among everything that is. But when she _needs_ it, when she’s falling or fighting or shielding an innocent, she reaches _in_. 

She knows that Luke thinks of her reliance on her inner energy as an everpresent danger—to herself, and to everything. She knows what he doesn’t ever say, that he thinks that reaching inside is reaching selfishly, reaching for the Dark. 

She knows he’s wrong. She knows it because when she taps the firestorm of Force inside herself, the thing that she pushes out is joy. It can flatten trees and lift boulders and incinerate spaceships, but it is joy nonetheless. 

Still, she doesn’t expect him to react well when she shares the conclusions that she’s come to and the course she plans to take, and at the top of the stairs she finds she is depressingly correct. 

“I don’t understand,” he says, looking wounded and betrayed. 

“I think,” she says, again, with patience that she does not really feel, “that we need to reevaluate how my training is happening.” She corrects herself, to be more honest: “I need to change the way I’m training.” 

“You think you need to change the way you use the Force,” Luke says. 

Rey takes a deep breath. “Yes.” 

Luke is shaking his head before the syllable is even out of her mouth. “Rey, you can’t even imagine how dangerous that is,” he says. “The Force is pure, but it can be unbelievably destructive as well. Good intentions don't protect you from terrible outcomes.” 

“I’m not relying on good intentions,” she retorts. “I have my own conscience and my own method of mastery. It works, Luke. It’s always at work, no matter how—” 

“What you’re using to control the Force is itself uncontrollable,” he insists. “I know what you’re talking about, Rey. You think that your body—the passions of your physical self—that you can direct something so, so, _animal_ to work in a way that’s constructive …” He trails off. 

“Yes, Luke, I do think that,“ Rey says. She tries to convey her own certainty and clarity to him. “I _know_ that.” 

“You can’t know something that isn’t true,” Luke says stubbornly. 

“I can know _this_ ,” she says, gently but firmly. “Everything tells me it’s right.”

“And I’m telling you,” he says urgently, “that you can’t possibly have perspective. The—sensation—that you’re relying on …”

“Sex,” she murmurs. “You can say it.”

“… inherently makes people prone to self-delusion.”

Rey considers this. It’s a fair point. Nothing breeds the willingness to believe the utterly unbelievable quite like the firestorm of sexual attraction. Then she thinks, as always, of Phasma, the way that sex bares her essential self. She knows that she has been able to touch Phasma’s bedrock—her gentle steadiness, her integrity, the kindness that she guards under layers of sorrow and guilt—only because they were able to meet in a place of mutual need. So she also knows that nothing breeds absolute honesty quite like the firestorm of sexual attraction. 

“I have to be careful,” she agrees at last. Then, strongly, she adds, “So do you. Do you honestly believe that reason has never led anyone to evil?”

“I believe,” Luke says, “that our universe cannot afford for you to be mistaken.” 

She can’t quite grasp what he’s said for a moment. He is really doing it—he is loading the fate of sentient civilization onto her. He probably thinks that the awful responsibility will frighten her into abandoning her reckless experiment. 

It has just about exactly the opposite effect. “If the universe needs me to cut myself off from what I love in order to save it,” she says coldly, “then the universe can save its bloody self.” 

Luke looks as if she’s punched him in the face. 

She softens a little. “Look, yes, I understand what you’re saying. It feels right to you the way you do it. But it doesn’t feel less right to me the way I do it.” 

“But we know from the ancients that ...” 

“No, we don’t.” She is getting a little angry again. “The Jedi are gone. The Jedi library is gone. What we have is a few scraps repeated over years and years, with no way to know how they’ve been altered by being passed on. And have you noticed that somehow or other the little bit of Jedi knowledge we have has been kept and transmitted by _men_? Did it ever occur to you that it might be a little different for women?” 

“I don’t see how that makes a difference.” 

“No, you wouldn’t.” She closes her eyes and centers herself (with a Jedi meditation, appreciating the irony). When she opens her eyes again, her anger has passed. 

“I don’t think it matters where the energy comes from. Whether it’s passionate or dispassionate. Internal or external. I think it’s what you do with it, not how you get to it. And that’s how I’m going to live it.” 

He bows his head. It hurts her that he looks so defeated, and so old. He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “You won’t let anything guide you except what you feel.” He says the last word as if it smells bad. Then he mutters, “And me, but I’m obviously not very good at this.” 

Her fondness for him bubbles up. “You didn’t have anything to guide you, either. You made up your ideas from what you felt the same way I’m doing it.” 

He shakes his head. “I had Yoda.” 

Somehow she’s able to keep herself from rolling her eyes. “Yoda? You’re going to bring up _Yoda_?” 

“He had nine hundred years of wisdom and—” 

“Exactly,” Rey breaks in. “He was nine hundred years old and he hadn’t seen another member of his own species for what, five hundred of those? And you were taking sex advice from him? If you’re going to get someone to teach you how to ride a horse, it should at least be someone who’s ridden a horse.” 

There is a moment of shocked silence. It hangs between them for several breaths; and then, to her surprise, Luke breaks it by laughing. Not just a chuckle—a big, full-throated, genuine roll of laughter. He laughs so hard that he has to sit down on the ground; Rey, bemused but unable to keep from smiling herself, sits down with him.

When his laughter finally peters out, he wipes his eyes and looks at her, smiling. “Rey,” he says.

“Yes?”

His gaze turns searching and rueful. After a long and not completely comfortable moment, he says, “I trust you.”

Rey is astonished. She had played out a dozen ways this encounter could go, and in none of them, not even the most bright and optimistic, had she imagined those words. “You do?” she squeaks.

He nods. “I do,” he says. 

The warmth she feels must shine in her face, because he smiles at her again. “You’re quite extraordinary, Rey,” he says. 

She basks in the joy of his words for a moment, grinning. Then she remembers that there is something else she has to tell him, and this might well destroy their delicate détente. She feels her face settle into seriousness. “Luke,” she says. “Master Luke.”

“You don’t call me master unless you’re about to tell me something that’s going to make me mad,” he observes with grave humor. “Out with it.”

She takes a deep breath. She had a speech planned, involving love and the persistence of the human spirit and the miracle of life, but she can’t think of a single word of it. Instead she just blurts, “I’m pregnant.”

Luke’s eyes go wide with bewilderment. “You can’t be.”

“I really am,” she says, and she can’t hide the wonder in her voice.

“But I thought …” He is clearly struggling with what to say. “Aren’t you … and Phasma? Did you—did she—You seemed so …” He gives up and just spreads his hands in entreaty.

Rey can’t help a smirk at his discomfiture. “Yes, me and Phasma. It’s still me and Phasma.”

He looks even more confused. 

She takes pity on him. “She and I—we made it happen together.” She smiles slightly. “Phasma says she’s not Force-sensitive, but I think this disproves that.” She’s aware that it isn’t exactly an explanation, but she is not planning to go into the details. There are things Luke definitely does not need to know.

Luke turns his head away, clearly trying to think it through. Nervously, Rey watches him. She has not the slightest idea of what he will say, and she’s afraid. She is most afraid that he will tell her that this baby, created by the intersection of human passion and the Force, is a child of darkness. He might be the closest thing she has to a father but that, she thinks, will end the bond between them. 

She looks inward for the briefest of moments and touches the tiny spark inside, the way she might touch a chip in a tooth with her tongue, checking over and over that it’s there. Her daughter. _Their_ daughter. She isn’t ready to be a mother, but that doesn’t lessen the raw devotion she feels to the child she will have.

Luke slowly brings his gaze back up to her, and their eyes meet. His expression is … delighted. “A baby,” he says, with warm amazement. 

Rey laughs with relief. “A baby,” she confirms, and then he’s hugging her. That too is a surprise; he is rarely physical, and never physically affectionate. 

“It’s wonderful,” he says, holding her tightly. “It’s life. It’s everything we’re fighting for.”

He lets her out of his embrace but takes her by the shoulders, holding her at arm’s length where he can see her. “And if you can make life, Rey—” His voice chokes slightly, and he starts again. “You brought life from the Force, Rey. You just might be right after all.”

“Of course I am,” Rey says, ignoring the tears that escape her brimming eyes and slide down her cheeks. She’s smiling too widely, too indiscriminately, to possibly control them. 

Luke, too, is smiling as if he can’t stop himself. “She’s waiting at the base of the stairs, isn’t she?” he says, abruptly.

“Yes,” Rey says, not bothering to ask how he knows.

“Go,” he says. He makes a shooing motion with his hand. “We’ll work another day. Be together. Be happy.”

It’s the best order he’s ever given. “Yes, Master,” she says, with an overdone bow.

He snorts. “Go!” 

Rey laughs: and with love and trust and the power of her body’s connection to the world, she leaps. And she flies.

**Author's Note:**

> The item that Phasma bought at the bazaar is a combination of [this](https://www.tantusinc.com/products/echo-handle) and [this](http://www.lovehoney.com/product.cfm?p=12036). I wish it existed.
> 
> This story shares a universe/headcanon with my other Reysma smut; you can assume that what happened in those stories has already happened in this one, not that it makes any difference.


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